Breakfast
Woke up at around 9.30 am such strange luxury on a race day! and waited for Ronan, my genial host and a man I described in my Tales from Montreal, much to his consternation I might add, as having a quiet sense of humour. For the record (and now that I know that Ronan and some of his pals read this rubbish) I will expound on that and say he has a mischievous, understated and in some way mercurial nature. There, that should clear that up nicely.
During the previous evenings' pasta fest we had discussed the official pre-race dining advice as set out by the race organisers. This boldly stated that runners should dine at least four hours prior to start time. I may be over-quoting Mr Sheehan of late but given that we are all an experiment of one I find this sort of sweeping statement risible, declaring so in no uncertain terms to the gathered carb-loaders. Ronan stoutly defended his local arbiters stating that he would be taking them at their word. As things turned out, and as so often in life when people want/ need/ like to get along, we compromised. Breakfast was laid out at the student-friendly hour of eleven. Rice pudding, bananas, honey, seeded bread, coffee and plenty of water filled the table. Leo, the Oxford-based Italian greyhound, joined us and we set about our feast with great gusto. As substitutes for porridge oats go the rice pudding was excellent (if cold), mixing delightfully with chopped banana and honey. Of course we then kicked our fidgety heels for an hour or more before setting off for the Parc du Cinquantenaire whilst I whined constantly and without shame about the obvious folly of a mid-afternoon start.
Race: Start
So much of this race reminded me of the excellent
Marathon de Paris; the auspicious starting place, the tree-lined boulevards, the Gallic cries of encouragement . . . the utter chaos from start to finish . . .
Well, thats not strictly fair. But before I get to the meat of the pie I have to share a gripe or two. Race starts;
whats the dang deal here people? If you are a planet-munching lard-bucket no more capable of maintaining 12-minute miles than you are of walking past a chip shop why on Earth would you want to start a race ahead of the 1 hour 30 pace runners and the twenty thousand-odd runners lined up behind them? Do tell, pray, for I am sore distracted to know the flamin reason. And race organisers; hello? We have chip timing so it's no longer essential to try to get 25,000 people through a two-person gap all at the same time. How about some staggered starts? In Brussels race numbers are allocated according to projected finishing time. OK, an imperfect system when our fellow runners insist, on the basis of some bizarre bravado or idea that they might get on the telly if their sixth chin should trip up the favourite, on claiming a 1:20 finish. The orgaisers should beware such entries, stained as they often are with burger grease and chip fat. But generally this would work no? The starting pens are in seven blocks; so seven starting guns, each admittedly less pant-filling than the fifty pounds of semtex used here but just as effective, set off at ten minute intervals. That
might just create enough space for some of us to actually
run some time in the first five kay of your blessed race.
Equally it is surely not beyond the bounds of reason to suggest that in a big city race (25,000 starters may not match the numbers for the City of Manchester 10K Street-Sweep but its still a fair number of warm bodies in a relatively confined space) that if you find that youre moving at a considerably slower speed* than your fellow runners we could all agree (and the organisers share this with everyone before the off) that you elect to move to a designated side of the flow - left or right, I really don't care. That is as opposed to wandering aimlessly across sixteen lanes of running humanity as you fcuk about with your iplod. Its just a thought.
*[SIZE="1"]not to be confused with slower runners; Im talking shuffling/ hobbling/ barely walking here.[/SIZE]
This is
not a dig at the Brussels organisers - actually this was one of the better organised big city races - but at big events in general. Id best cut to the chase before I bust a blood vessel.
The start of the 20K of Brussels takes place under the mighty Liberation Arch in Parc du Cinquantenaire. Some five minutes later, just as the runners leave the park, the actual start line appears repleat with chirping chip mats. Its all a bit confusing but you know what? It works in its own crazy way. Our merry cosmopolitan cluster separated in the starting pen scramble. With a race number in the seven thousands I found my place soon enough but managed to lose Ronan (he'd set off in search of the sub 2 pacers). Lorenzo, Ronan's colleague from the IDF (another horribly fit young man) was still with me. Pierre-Rive and Erwan, with barely any training and a few late nights tucked away, wisely chose to join the tail-enders. Ravels
Bolero blasted out from the giant speakers hanging off the grand arch as we awaited the gun. Im not sure of the significance of this piece to the people of Brussels but it helped to pass the time, conjouring hazy, rose-tinted memories of 1984, Gold in Sarajevo,
Torvill and Dean, Alan Weeks in euphoria, perfect sixes, jumpers for goal posts hmm, wasnt it?
Finally, after the Belgian National Anthem, an ear-splitting roar as a series of demolition charges signalled the start and we were shuffling forwards, the initial stunned silence yielding to a rising tide of excited chatter, lusty cheers and cries of Allez!.
It wont surprise you to learn (having suffered my previous petulant rant) the early kilometres involved a good deal of ducking and diving around inconsiderate human bollards. Id been warned about this over supper last night and responded by leaning back in my chair, puffing on an imaginary pipe stuffed with hubris and announcing the only way to deal with such an obstacle is with a calm clear countenance. Above all, Id pontificated to my rapt/ captive audience, one should not waste energy on scuttling about through the early congestion; rather conserve ones strength for a more valuable push some thirty minutes into the race by which time such troublesome flotsam will have no doubt dispersed.
Sadly that pompous arse was nowhere to be found as I cursed and sweated my way around and through a series of lardy roadblocks, leaking energy like a Chavs' house at Christmas and heating up nicely. Speaking of heat the expected deluge never turned up. By all accounts it hung a right on the way over from Old Blighty to offload on Monaco where it conspired to deliver mayhem to the Grand Prix and swing jammy Hamilton his first success in the Principality. That left yours truly with his favourite race conditions; sweltering nicely under an unhindered, broiling sun.
